Decomposure
by paperbkryter
Summary: A freak accident leaves Dean reeling, and he resorts to something drastic to make it all better again. But has he done the right thing? And what consequences will he have to pay?
1. Chapter 1

They were after a spirit, just a spirit, no big deal. It was manifesting in an old farmhouse in upstate Michigan, a house with new owners looking to do some restoration. There had been a story in the newspaper about their ongoing troubles. A medium declared the house possessed by the malevolent ghost of a former owner and proceeded to conduct an elaborate ceremony to get it to leave. Dean declared the medium a quack. He and Sam went to Michigan.

Sure enough, the spirit came back not long after the medium left. It left ugly scratches on the homeowners wife, and tossed around a few things causing quite a bit of damage. Sam led the way to the grave. It was at the back of the property, beyond a hayfield, obscured by overgrowth; tangled vines and long grasses interwoven so badly Dean had to go back to the car for a machete. They hacked their way through, dug up the farmer's bones, and disposed of the spirit by fire and salt.

It should have been a simple in and out job, but it wasn't.

* * *

"Guh, I reek of lighter fluid," Sam grimaced, sniffing his coat. "What did you use, the whole bottle?"

"Hey, I'm thorough, what can I say."

"Yeah, whatever. We're staying over tonight. I want a shower."

Dean snorted derisively. "You're such a girl. Hotels cost money, Sam."

"I'm not driving all night stinking like a barbecue grill."

"Maybe the Nelsons will let you use their shower." Dean laughed, because the Nelson's farmhouse wasn't quite ready for occupation. The sole bathroom in the house had a toilet and nothing else. To bathe one would have to utilize a bucket and a sponge.

"Very funny," Sam grimaced. "I'm serious, dude. My eyes are watering."

"Not my fault you were standing too close."

Looking back over his shoulder, Dean could see a faint flickering light from the edge of the field. The fire was dying out, that was good. He didn't want to be responsible for a grass fire that would possibly wipe out the Nelson's house or those of their neighbors. He had used quite a bit of lighter fluid this time around. They'd have to pick up some more before they left town. With that thought in mind, he hoisted the bag he carried back up on his shoulder and quickened his pace a little. Ahead of them a dirt farm road arced its way through the woods between the house and the hayfield and there sat the Impala, waiting for them.

_Covered in mud. Maybe we should stay over one more night, hang around for a while in the morning. There was a car wash not too far from here..._

"Dean."

He rolled his eyes and kept walking. "What _now_, Sam?"

"Dean, wait."

Dean turned around in mid stride. "What?" He expected more whining, but that wasn't what was on his brother's mind.

Sam stood several yard behind him, head raised, eyes scanning the woods just to his right. "There's something else here." He frowned, his eyes narrowing beneath the fall of his bangs.

It was iffy, Sam's psychic radar, but over the course of time Dean had learned to trust it. When it was working, it worked pretty damn good. He reached into the bag and pulled out a shotgun.

"Spirit?"

"Nu-huh," Sam said softly. "Something else. I can't quite..."

Abruptly Sam's eyes widened. His head jerked around, his gaze locked on Dean's as he shouted, "RUN!"

Neither one of them had time to even flinch, let alone run, and in retrospect Dean realized they wouldn't have gotten very far anyway. The thing moved much too fast. One moment it was bursting out of the underbrush, a big, black shadow leaping forward across the ground on four legs, and in the next breath it was on Sam. Dean fired, but rock salt had little effect. He saw a flash of teeth, heard a scream...

And then he was running, sprinting across the field as fast as he could, fumbling the keys as he unlocked the trunk of the car. His motions were jerky, fast, and frantic. His hands shook, badly.

"Come on, come on, where is it? Where is it?"

There, beneath a wooden cross, he saw a flash of silver. The pistol was in his hand and he was gone within seconds, firing repeatedly as he raced back over the field. At least one bullet found its target. In a blink the thing was gone.

Dean kept running, kept the gun trained on the woods and every nerve, every muscle poised for action. The whole attack, from beginning to end, had only taken seconds. He had not killed it, nor wounded it severely. It could come back in an instant and finish what it started.

What it started.

"Sam?" Dean didn't look, but kept his eyes on their surroundings as he walked the few feet to where Sam knelt in the dirt. "Sam, talk to me."

There was a faint, very faint whisper. "Son of a bitch..."

The relief Dean felt at hearing his brother speak didn't last long. He spared a look.

"Oh, God. Sammy..."

He was on his knees then, catching Sam as he collapsed slowly to the ground. The tear at the juncture of Sam's neck and shoulder was an ugly, mangled wound over which blood poured in rhythmic bursts. Sam's jacket and the shirt beneath it were already soaked. His face was paper white. Without thinking, Dean jammed his hand down over the wound. Blood spurted through his fingers and Sam did not even flinch. He was already beyond pain.

"Hold on. Damnit don't you die on me." Dean's fingers slipped. He sought the torn jugular again, pressing hard. A sob choked him. "It won't fucking stop!"

Sam looked up at him. His lips quirked in a half smile as his eyes slowly closed. "Don't," he breathed. "Do anything...stupid."

"Sam! No. No, no, no. You stay with me! Stay with me!" Scrambling around on his knees, Dean pulled Sam's body up into his arms, letting his brother's head fall against his shoulder as he redoubled his efforts to stop the bleeding. "Don't do this! SAM!"

He could feel the bleeding begin to cease, but for all the wrong reasons. Sam's heart faltered, and then stopped completely, no longer pushing the blood through his veins. Dean felt the faint breath of a sigh against his neck. "Sam. Oh, Sammy please..."He tightened his grip, pulling Sam closer, but beneath his arm his brother's chest did not rise again.

Dean sat there stunned. It had happened so suddenly he could not get his head around it. In seconds Sam had been killed, just seconds. Twenty-two years of life had been stolen away in less than a minute.

He pressed Sam's head to his cheek, rocking back and forth as a low, keening whine turned into a scream of anger, frustration and denial. It echoed back over the field as the tears began to fall.

* * *

_Don't do anything stupid. _

Dean was notorious for doing stupid things. Seeking out Manford Dubois would definitely be considered stupid, but he didn't give a fuck. Ignoring the warnings John Winchester had written in his journal could be considered _extremely_ stupid, but again, Dean didn't give a fuck. For years he'd been involved with the paranormal. He knew what power was out there. It could do a lot of harm to people. It had killed his brother. Harnessing the paranormal in an effort to do good sometimes backfired. Dean himself was a living example of that. He lived while someone else pushed up the daisies.

It was morally bankrupt and dangerous as Hell, but Dean took Sam to Pennsylvania, to Manford.

The girl who answered the door looked at him with half-glazed eyes and mumbled a greeting. She was pale and somewhat listless, but managed a smile as she led Dean through the big rambling house to the parlor where Manford met guests. The house was astounding, but that was not surprising. Manford was in the restoration business after all.

Tall, thin, and affecting the dress of a Victorian gentleman, Manford was a man out of time. There was nothing paranormal about him though, he was not a spirit nor vampire. He was simply a man who had been born in the wrong era, who loved history and the mysteries of the past. His dark eyes widened as he saw Dean in his parlor, and his mustache twitched in a smirk. There was no love lost between Manford Dubois and the Winchesters. John had busted up too many of his parties.

"Here to dispense the annual Winchester lecture upon my lack of moral fiber?" Manny snorted, as he eased himself into a chair opposite Dean. "Don't waste your breath. I promise you, I've done nothing wrong."

"Yeah?" Dean jerked a head toward the girl, who had brought tea for Manford and a beer for Dean. "What about her?"

Manny thanked the girl and sent her on her way. "Deborah is compensated for her services."

"Richly," Dean murmured. He twisted off the top of the beer and drank. It hit him like a punch in the gut. He hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, for two days. "She's better than the last one."

"You should see the one that followed her," Manny chuckled. He sipped at his tea and gazed at Dean with a smug expression as if daring him to comment further.

Dean did comment, but probably not in the manner Manny was expecting. "So you've improved the serum?"

"What serum?"

With a sigh, Dean rubbed at his eyes. "Manny, don't play games with me. I know you. You've never let Dad interrupt your experiments for long, and I know you made another trip to the Caribbean last year..."

"A legitimate vacation..."

"And I'm the Pope," Dean snapped. "Just tell me the fucking truth. Does it work?"

Manford's mouth stretched into a wide grin. "Ask Deborah."

"Is it permanent? Are there any side effects?"

"How should I know? Just when I start collecting data your old man comes in here with an axe and lops off the heads of my test subjects." Manny lowered his voice. "Sanctimonious bastard. Do you realize what my work could accomplish if he'd just let me do it?"

"Yeah. I've seen _Day of the Dead_ several times."

"Piss on you, Winchester."

Dean took another long pull from his beer. When he finished, he licked his lips, and idly turned the bottle around in his hand, avoiding Manny's dark, smoldering gaze. "I'm not here to bust you," he said softly.

"Then why are you here?"

Slowly, Dean leaned forward and placed the empty beer bottle on the coffee table. He raised his eyes to meet Manny's.

"I've brought you a new project."

Thin, dark eyebrows went up in surprise. "Reaaaally," Manford drawled. "Backsliding into the dark side are we? What would your old man say?"

"I don't know," Dean muttered.

It was a lie. John would be infuriated and Dean knew it. This once, though, Dean didn't care what John thought. He didn't care what anyone thought. He needed to purge the ache that had settled down into his chest because it was killing him.

Manford put his tea aside and stood. "My curiosity is certainly piqued. Let's see what you've got."

"I need another beer first."

He was obliged. Deborah returned with another cold bottle. Dean took a bit of time to study her. Aside from the faintly distracted air about her, she seemed perfectly normal. She even smiled at him as she handed him his drink. His fingers brushed against hers. They were cold, but that might have been from the beer. When he thanked her, she smiled again and a very faint blush entered her pale cheeks.

The beer went down quickly. Emboldened and slightly buzzed, Dean rose from his chair to lead Manny outside. The Impala was parked in the Victorian's long curving driveway. He handed Manny the keys but stood back himself.

"Back seat," he said gruffly.

Manny opened the passenger's side door and immediately recoiled. He looked back over his shoulder with a grimace. "God...that's... How long has he been dead?"

"Forty-eight hours give or take."

"I'd have liked something fresher."

"He's not a side of fucking beef!" Dean's voice cracked. Manford looked at him sharply. Biting his lip, Dean fought down the urge to be sick. "Just...just tell me if you can do it or not."

Eyes rolling, Manford stuck his head back in the car, pushing up the passenger's seat and pulling away the blanket. Dean didn't look. He really didn't have to since Manny insisted on giving him a play by play.

"Serious trauma here. I'd have to fix that first. What was it?"

"Lycanthrope."

Manny's head popped out of the car. He drew a long breath of fresh air. "Infected?"

"No. Bled out too fast."

"Thank God for that. I'm not about to reanimate something that's going to turn around and bite my head off." His voice grew muffled as he went back in to continue his examination. "Still in rigor. You'll have to help me get him out of here."

"No."

Dean heard a curse, and the car door slamming. He looked up to see Manny approaching with a scowl on his face.

"What do you mean, 'no'? You think I can pull a corpse that big, in full rigor, out of there by myself?"

"I can't," Dean said hoarsely. "Don't you have a lab assistant or something? I thought all mad scientists have an Igor."

"What's going on, Winchester?" Manford said suddenly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I actually haven't agreed to do this yet. Forty-eight hours is a long time dead. I've improved the serum, yes, but I'm used to using it on the newly departed, not rotting meat. Maybe you should give me a little more incentive."

"If you can't do it, fine. Point me to a funeral home and I'll get out of your hair."

"What aren't you telling me? Don't come here demanding answers if you're not going to give any. What's this guy to you?"

Dean ground his teeth. He knew Manny couldn't miss the way his eyes were watering, nor the strain on his face. It was time to come clean.

"Family," he growled. "My little brother."

One elegant black brow arched and Manny spoke softly. "Oh. Well. Things just got more interesting." His eyes narrowed. "Your father will disown you for this."

"No, he'd have two dead sons 'cause he'd kill me. He doesn't know, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"What's in it for me?"

Inhaling deeply, Dean closed his eyes. His side of the bargain was going to be easy considering John Winchester's AWOL status. "I'll keep Dad off your back."

"And..."

Dean's eyes popped open. "And what? Isn't that enough?"

"No, it's not. You people are nomads, and judging from the fact that your father doesn't know one of his sons bit the big one, I get the impression you haven't seen him lately. A month from now you'd be gone off spook hunting and he could drive up with his trusty axe and put an end to my operation yet again."

"You're a bastard, Dubois."

Manny waved a perfectly manicured hand. "Fine," he said, stalking back up the steps to the house. "But I've got to warn you, you'll never get that stench out of your car once baby brother starts bloat..."

"All right, all right! What do you want?" Stomach churning, Dean turned around and grabbed Manny's arm, ceasing his progress up the stairs. "Anything. I'll do anything."

The look Manford gave him was appraising. Dean got the point.

"Not. That."

"You're such a homophobe. Not even for your brother?"

"I think he'd understand considering you form lasting relationships with corpses on a regular basis."

Manny grunted. "You're about to," he said. "You know what, we'll finish the negotiations later. If you want this done right, we need to get moving." He disengaged his arm from Dean's hand and started up the stairs again.

Dean glanced uneasily back at the car. "Where are you going?" he demanded.

The answer was dripping with sarcasm.

"To call Igor of course."


	2. Chapter 2

He didn't intend to fall asleep, but he was going on hour seventy-two without and it had been the most stressful seventy-two hours he'd ever experienced. The job at the Nelson's, Sam's death, the horrific drive from Michigan to Pennsylvania, and the verbal sparring with Manny, it all cumulated into acute exhaustion. Before Dean realized what was happening he'd slumped sideways on the sofa in Manford's library and fallen blissfully unconscious.

The dream woke him. Sam was there, holding a knife to Dean's throat, his eyes narrowed with anger. With one quick stroke he slit Dean's jugular. Blood rushed from the wound, unstoppable. Sam stepped back with a sneer on his face.

_"I told you not to do something stupid." _

Dean sat up with a gasp. He immediately cringed backward as he opened his eyes and saw Deborah standing in front of him in the dark. The girl was just standing there, staring at him blankly. Her long tawny hair curled around her pale face, giving her a childlike look although she had to have been in her late twenties. She could, Dean realized, be older, depending on how long Manny'd had her since her initial death. Revenants aged, but very slowly.

They tended to do everything slowly, actually. Deborah's voice was a low, leisurely, drawl.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't want to wake you."

"No, that's...okay." Dean straightened. He eyed her carefully. If you didn't know, you couldn't tell unless you got right up on top of her and realized she wasn't breathing.

"Dr. Dubois sent me to tell you he would be just a little while longer."

"Oh, he's a _doctor_ now is he?" Dean snorted. He glanced at his watch. It was three in the morning, over twelve hours since he'd arrived.

"Can I bring you anything?" Deborah asked politely. Her eyes blinked slowly.

_Do they make a sanity pill? What was I thinking bringing Sam here?_

"No," he rasped. "I'm fine."

"Okay."

She continued to stand there as if waiting for instruction. Dean scrubbed at his face with his hands but did not take his eyes off of her. There was a fine line between a vampire and a zombie, and an even finer line between a zombie and one of Manny's revenants. Sometimes those lines got blurred, which is why John came down on Manford so hard. If Deborah had a taste for human flesh, Dean had no intention of becoming a midnight snack. Of course knowing what Deborah ate was something he might have to know.

"Do you, uh...sleep?" he inquired cautiously. Considering the hour, it was a good segue for further questions.

"No."

"Eat?"

"Sometimes." Her smile returned. "I like pizza."

_Thank God for that._

"I ate some in January," Deborah added.

Dean raised his brows. January was five months earlier. "Anything since?"

"No. That was good. I may be hungry next month." Her thin shoulders rolled in a shrug. "Are you hungry?"

"No," Dean lied. In fact he was starving, but the thought of having Deborah make him a sandwich was not particularly appealing. He studied her carefully once more. She really was a stunning piece of work, and to think Manny had produced something even more life-like after her was astounding.

She cocked her head at him. "I know what you want to ask."

"You do?"

"Oh yes. People who meet me always ask. At least those that know what I am."

"So you know?" Dean let out a breath. Sometimes revenants didn't realize they were dead, and he rather hoped Sam wouldn't. Her reply eased his worries somewhat.

"Doctor Dubois told me. After he raised Duncan I was curious, so I asked. Duncan turned out nicer." She inhaled deeply. Breathing was necessary for speaking. "I drowned."

"You remember any of it?"

"Not much. I remember the water and being cold. I don't like water." Abruptly she cocked her head to the side as if listening. She even nodded in response to some unheard question before turning her attention back to Dean. "The doctor asks me to take you upstairs. Your brother is in the blue room."

Deborah turned on her heel. Dean scrambled up out of the sofa to follow her. Her pace was slow and steady, with only a slight stiffness to her back and shoulders. It was easy for him to keep up with her because of this, and the fact that she was half his height. At the stairs he surpassed her, climbing them two at a time in his haste. Manny was standing at the end of a long hallway, in front of a closed door. He appeared slightly disgruntled.

"Well, he's a Winchester all right. Definitely your father's son." He failed to elaborate, but went on to tell Dean the procedure had been successful. "Frankly, I'm surprised it worked at all given the length of time he'd been dead." There was a frown. "It worked extraordinarily well in fact."

"So he's..."

Manny waved a hand at the door. "See for yourself."

Dean hesitated. His hand shook a little as he turned the knob. With a deep breath, he turned it, popping the door open with a creak.

"Go on," Manny sniffed. "Oh, and Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"About our negotiations - forget about anything else. Just take your brother and go, and keep your Dad out of my business. The less Winchester I see in the next twenty years the better." He gestured to Deborah, and the two of them descended the stairs, leaving Dean standing in front of the door.

He stared at it for a moment, chewing his lip in apprehension.

_Here goes nothing._

Dean pushed the door open just wide enough to admit himself, and once inside, closed it firmly.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but he braced himself as he turned around to face the bed. His voice was a cracked whisper.

"Sammy?"

Sam was sitting up against a thick pile of pillows, covered in a quilt and plain white cotton sheets as if he were just a house guest. His arms were crossed over his bare chest. Thick, white bandaging encircled his neck like a collar, hiding the ugly wound that had killed him. Other than the paleness of his skin and the dark circles under his eyes, he looked completely normal. He also looked bored, impatient...

And more than a little pissed off.

"Manford Dubois?" he grated. "You brought me to Dr. Frankenstein?"

"Sam," Dean choked on his emotions. They ran the gambit from sheer joy that Sam was alive again, to annoyance at the pissy attitude. He wasn't quite sure what to feel, nor how, exactly to express it. The latter was nothing new. "What was I supposed to do?"

"How about burial or cremation?" Sam said tartly.

"Oh, come on, Sam! How could I just let you die? You never gave up on me!"

"Dean. There's a difference between dead and dying. _You_ still had a pulse!"

Dean fumed. "You ungrateful bastard."

"I should be grateful for what exactly? Huh?" Sam shot back. There was nothing at all slow about him. He was as sharp as a tack and struck like a cobra. Manny had definitely improved his technique since Deborah. "You've turned me into one of _them_, Dean, the things we hunt down and destroy. What the fuck were you thinking?"

There was no way Dean was going to tell him what he was thinking, primarily because now he was pissed that Sam was pissed. He didn't want to admit how much it hurt to have Sam gone, how badly he'd wanted to make things right. Dean had agonized over the decision for hours and in the end, he'd been forced to admit that he just couldn't let his brother go yet. The loss had been too sudden. Dean couldn't accept it.

"You said it yourself," Sam continued, not letting him off the hook. "People can't play God. There are always consequences."

"Fine," Dean snarled. "Then why don't I just go down to the car, get a gun, and put a bullet in your head? That should ease your conscience."

There was an abrupt silence. Sam's eyes glazed and he grew frighteningly still. For one horrifying moment, he _looked_ dead, so much so that Dean nearly called Manny back in to accuse him of lying. When Sam finally spoke his voice was flat and uninflected, much like Deborah's.

"No," he said slowly. "Because now I know why there are spirits in the world, why they don't pass over as they should." His head cocked slightly to the side, as if he were listening. "There's nothing out there, Dean, nothing. There are no bright lights and lost relatives, no chorus of angels to greet you, no Heaven, no Hell. The afterlife is a myth. Everything just - stops."

Their eyes met, and Dean felt a chill as he saw something deep within Sam's that had not been there before, something dark and dangerous. Sam's words made him shudder, not for what they said, but the tone he used to dispatch them. It was very close to a warning.

"I will never," Sam said icily. "Ever, go back there."

"Well, then," Dean said, with a lightness he definitely did not feel. "Stop your bitching, because you owe me one, even if it's just for making me have to suck up to Manny."

Sam blinked, and then smiled, and whatever Dean thought he'd seen was gone.

"Man, I would have loved to have seen that."

"Shut up."

* * *

_"They all come out a little differently,"_ Manford had said._ "Which is why I need to do more research. I have the technique down now, but not the fine control needed to produce consistent results."_

_"Oh that's just peachy, Manny. Real comforting."_

_"Just let me know what happens, for the sake of science." _

_"And necromancy?"_

_"That too." _

_"And if he kills me?"_

_"I have more serum."_

_"In your dreams Dubois. I'll rot first." _

So far, so good. A day later and Sam hadn't done anything really extremely out of the ordinary. At the moment he was reading a road map, scowling down at it as he tried to figure out where exactly they'd made a wrong turn onto a stretch of very desolate highway. Dean was freezing because Sam had the window rolled down. Sam didn't seem to notice the cold, but he had noticed the unpleasant smell of the Impala's interior.

_"What reeks?"_

_"That, my brother, is the smell of your two-day-old corpse."_

_"Oh God, that's just gross, Dean."_

_"You have no one to blame but yourself, Sammy."_

_"Very funny."_

"I think it was when we went left at the last crossroads. We should have jogged right a little instead," Sam murmured. He traced their route with his finger. "Yeah, that's it."

"Can we get there from here? Or do we have to backtrack?"

"Hmm, no. Keep going straight. We'll pick up Route 219, and that should take us back around to the north again."

Dean nodded. They were weaving their way back toward Michigan. Regardless of their personal feelings regarding the situation, the werewolf still had to be hunted down and killed. If it weren't for the danger it posed to other people, particularly the Nelsons, Dean might have been tempted never to go back there again. He knew he couldn't do that; the bastard had to be destroyed. Sam definitely shared that sentiment.

They'd been making excellent time. Sam, as it turned out, didn't sleep. While Dean nodded off in the passengers seat, Sam continued driving through day and night, only stopping to fill up the car with gas.

Before he'd drifted off to sleep, Dean had watched his brother drive for a while, taking note of something he found particularly eerie. Sam not only sat still as he drove, he sat perfectly still. In the half hour or so of Dean's observation, he hadn't moved at all; hadn't coughed, scratched, or even shifted his weight. His hands never left the steering wheel, and his eyes never left the road. The silence had been absolute. He hadn't even sighed. It was then Dean noticed that like Deborah, Sam only breathed when he spoke.

"Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"You're turning me into a popsicle."

"Oh, sorry." Sam reached over and rolled up the window. The car warmed up almost immediately. It still smelled, but not nearly as bad as it had the day before. "It's a little better."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "I'll have her detailed after we finish this up and that should get rid of it. We'll stay the night in Ann Arbor. I need to sleep in a bed tonight anyway."

They drove without speaking for a while. Dean didn't turn on the stereo, although he was tempted. Sam's unusually silent presence made him uneasy. It was almost as if he were alone in the car and reminded him uncomfortably of the horrific two days he'd spent driving with Sam's body lying in the back seat.

When his brother did inhale a breath, Dean was startled by the sudden sound.

"You never did tell me why you did it," Sam said.

"Did what?"

"Took me to Dubois."

"It's not obvious?"

"It would be kind of nice to hear you say it."

"Say what, that having you dead sucked ass?" Dean glanced over at him quickly, scowling.

Sam grinned back. "Well that's a start."

"God, you haven't changed."

"You'd rather I had?"

Dean glanced over at him again. The smile had vanished. In fact, every trace of animation had vanished. The look Sam was giving him was frighteningly cold.

"Nuh...no," he stammered. "That's not what I meant. I mean all this 'get in touch with your emotions' pansy ass crap. Figured getting you away from Stanford would cure that."

"Oh." Sam's expression flickered back on, but it remained rather grim. "Are you having regrets?" he asked softly.

Dean heard the ominous undercurrent in Sam's voice, and felt his piercing gaze. "No, Sammy. I'm not," he replied.

There was a rustling sound. Chancing a look, Dean saw his brother return to his study of the road map. There was no malice in his voice but what he said made Dean shiver.

"I know when you're lying."

"Why would I lie, Sam? I didn't exactly do the wave when you died in my arms."

Sam quietly folded the map. "There is that whole playing God issue. Who are we to meddle in who lives and who dies?"

"Technically you're still dead," Dean murmured. "So there's a sticking point."

"And of course, I'm not carrying around the burden of having lived while someone died in my place. I'm sure that was part of your rationalization for taking me to Dubois."

Dean ground his teeth. "Maybe it was, what's your point?"

"You talk a good talk, Dean, but you're not really a tough guy, are you? You're wondering what kind of monster you created, and what kind of scar it's going to leave on your soul."

The Impala's tires screeched on the roadway as Dean slammed on the brakes and pulled over. His hands clenched the steering while in a white knuckled grip as he turned to meet Sam's gaze head on. "Did I?" he demanded.

Sam's mouth quirked into a wry smile. "Did you what?"

"Create a monster."

For a moment Dean had his answer, and it was not the one he wanted. The monster was there in the cold glitter of Sam's eyes, and the shuttered look to his expression. He was cold, dead, unfeeling and very, very dangerous. Had Dean been carrying a gun he might have shot him right there and then.

But the moment passed in a blink of an eye, making Dean wonder, once again, if he had seen anything at all. Sam's smile broadened. The monster was vanquished by bright, twinkling eyes and dimpled cheeks. With a shake of his head, Sam laughed.

"Dude, chill. I'm just giving you a hard time."

Dean's shoulders relaxed. The road beckoned, and he eased the car back onto the highway, gradually picking up speed. "Maybe not a monster, but definitely an asshole."

"Do you blame me? 'Walking dead' does not look good on a resume."

"Okay, so I'm a selfish bastard. I wasn't ready to make this a solo gig."

Sam chuckled. "He likes me, he really, really likes me."

"Shut up, Sally and look for the turn off."


	3. Chapter 3

Dean regarded the flattened and bloodstained grass in silence, recalling the terror, the grief and the pain he'd felt as Sam bled to death in his hands. He barely remembered how he got Sam into the car, nor the first part of the nightmarish drive to Manford's house. The second half was more memorable, but no less horrific. He'd had to cover the body when Sam's face became unrecognizable, and the smell...

So caught up in the memory he didn't hear Sam come up behind him until he spoke.

"I found the trail."

"Jesus," Dean flipped his flashlight up to Sam's face. "Don't do that!"

Sam regarded the spot where he'd died with an almost serene expression. "You do realize I was probably dead seconds after the attack. It only takes the loss of a few pints before irreversible shock sets in."

"Thank you Doctor Carter, that doesn't make me feel any better."

"There wasn't anything you could have done, Dean," Sam said softly, his voice sympathetic. "You couldn't have saved me."

Dean sighed. "Yeah, I know." He cleared his throat. "So what did you find?"

"You definitely hit it. There's a blood trail leading back into the woods. It stops in the neighbor's field, along the side of an access road."

"Whoa, wait. It just stops?" Dean followed Sam as he made his way through the tall grass toward the strip of woods separating the Nelson's land from the neighboring farm.

"At a road. What does that tell you?"

"Either it morphed back, or..."

Sam looked back over his shoulder. "It had an accomplice."

Dean put a hand on his arm, stopping his progress. "Then let's not waste any more time searching out here. I say we go interview the neighbors."

"You sure you want to do that now? It's nearly midnight, and we don't know exactly what we're dealing with. If it's not cyclical it could morph the minute we step into its parlor."

With a grin, Dean waggled the gun he held in his hand. "That's what silver bullets are for, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes and shrugged. "Suit yourself. You're the one taking the risks here. I'm already dead, remember?"

"No! Really?"

"Asshole." Sam gave him a shove as they turned back toward the Impala.

"Jerk."

Their joshing made Dean relax for the first time in days. It was so habitual, so normal, that he could almost forget what had happened. All his fears, all his doubts melted away. He had done the right thing, hadn't he? This was his Sammy with him, whole and alive.

More or less.

He fell in behind Sam, noting once again that he moved faster than what Dean was used to among revenants. There was a fluid grace to his walk and that suddenly struck Dean as odd. Sam had never been clumsy as his gawky height might have suggested, but he wasn't exactly graceful either. Another niggling point: Manny had indicated Sam's wound would take time to fully heal, given that revenant flesh healed at a markedly slower rate. He'd repaired it as best he could, he said, but it would still leave an ugly scar.

It had healed in a day, and there was barely any mark on Sam's neck to indicate where the killing bite had landed.

_It's the new serum. Even Deborah said the revenant Manny created after her was far superior. Sam's just stepped it up a notch._

"Do you remember it?" he asked, as they got back into the car.

"Remember what?"

"The attack, dying." Dean turned the key and the Impala rumbled to life with a low roar.

"Some of it, why?"

"I was just wondering. Deborah told me she remembered drowning. It's made her afraid of water."

"I'm not afraid of werewolves if that's what you're worried about, and Deborah shouldn't be afraid of water. She can't drown again." Sam snorted derisively. "But given how much of her brain is oatmeal, it doesn't surprise me."

"She communicates with Manny telepathically. Did you know that?" Dean had noted the mocking tone Sam used when talking about Deborah. That would have never happened when Sam was alive. If anything he'd always been overly sympathetic toward the underdog.

"Yes. We all can, if we want to," Sam replied quietly. "And with each other. The one Manny created after Deborah, Duncan, he's dead you know."

Dean pulled out onto the paved road and turned toward the dirt access road belonging to the Nelson's neighbors. The navigation required to steer the big Chevy down the narrow farm road hid his surprise, as did his smart ass reply. "Isn't that a given?"

"He's dead as in destroyed, Dean. Manny didn't tell you that did he?"

Sam's eyes were on him, Dean could feel his gaze. "No. He didn't. What happened?"

There was a soft snort of laughter. "Manny tried to control him, like he does Deborah, but it didn't work. Duncan left, went to Reno and just last year dropped out of contact."

"Manny tell you?"

"No. I picked it up from Deborah." Sam said. "Neither Manny nor Deborah know what happened to him, but I do. Duncan was shot and decapitated. His head was buried out in the desert just outside of Las Vegas."

"How did you find out about that?"

There was a long pause, and Dean really didn't need him to answer. The story was just as familiar to him as it was to Sam.

"I read it in Dad's journal."

The Impala glided to a stop halfway up the farmer's driveway, where it would be out of sight from the house. Dean put it in park and turned to face his brother. Sam looked away out the windshield.

"You do realize," he said. "What will happen if Dad sees me like this, don't you?"

"He wouldn't."

Sam shook his head. "Since when have you gotten to be so naive, Dean? Of course he would. You know how he feels about Manford Dubois. The man is combining science and necromancy, black magic and medicine. He _is_ a modern Frankenstein, and what he creates..."

"Are monsters?" Dean asked archly. "Look, Sam, where life begins and ends is always going to a point of contention. Centuries ago if a person had been brought back to life after their heart stopped it would have been considered miraculous. Now we have difibulator machines on public transportation so anyone can do it. Maybe Manny really is just ahead of his time with this."

"Do you sincerely believe that?" Sam demanded. He reached out and grabbed Dean by the wrist, drawing his arm forward until Dean found himself with a palm pressed to Sam's chest. Beneath his hand he felt no heartbeat, no rise and fall of breath, and a body void of natural warmth. "This," his brother continued, "spits on the laws of nature. Stuff like this, it's why we do what we do, why we're here tonight."

Dean tried to pull away but Sam's grip was like iron. "Sam..."

Sam leaned across the seat. His eyes narrowed. "It's a warning, Dean," he said softly. "Don't ever forget what Dad taught you." Abruptly he released Dean's wrist.

He was gone before Dean even saw him reach for the door handle, gone before Dean could even focus on the fact that Sam had left in the first place.

"Shit!"

Scrambling out of the car, Dean stood up and looked off down the driveway. Sam was nowhere to be seen but a quick sweep of the flashlight revealed a set of sneaker tracks in the soft dirt leading up toward the house. He followed quickly, gun held ready. If the creature attacked him it would get a chest full of silver.

He made it around the bend without incident, coming up on the house from behind a parked car. All the lights were on inside. There was no trace of Sam anywhere.

Dean crouched behind the junked car, growling low beneath his breath. The barnyard lights were more than enough for him to see his way so he tucked the flashlight into his pocket and took up the gun in both hands. A noise made him jerk his head back around toward the barn.

There was a light there too, and a man's voice humming.

Cautiously, Dean edged out from around the car. He quickly scanned the barnyard before making a dash toward the wide open doors of the barn. With one wall pressed flat against his back, Dean slid toward the opening, eyes and ears tuned to the slightest motion, the slightest sound. A quick glance around the corner revealed a dark haired man in coveralls working on an ancient tractor.

Dean came around the side of the door and barked, "Freeze."

Instantly the man stopped what he was doing.

"Drop the weapon!" Dean growled.

"It's just a wrench..."

"Drop it!"

There was a clatter of metal on metal. The wrench slid off the fender of the tractor to the dirt floor. Dean reaffirmed his grip on the gun.

"Turn around, slowly."

"Are you a cop?"

"Turn around NOW!"

The man turned to face the barn doors, to where Dean stood holding gun on him. Dean took in his dark scraggly beard and thick brows, his large size and structure, and knew he had found the lycanthrope. If that weren't convincing enough, the sling on his right arm would have been. One of the bullets Dean had fired at him that night had evidently found a home in his shoulder.

"You!" the man gasped. His face twisted in fear. "I recognize you."

"You should," Dean spat. "I'm the one who put a bullet in you."

That it had been a silver bullet had not gone unnoticed.

"You know what I am!"

"Damn right I do. You killed my brother, you mangy bastard."

There was a groan, and the man's face crumpled. "Oh, God," he breathed. "I had hoped...

Dean cut him off. "You're cyclical?"

Nodding, the man rubbed his tearing eyes with his fingers. "Yeah. It's just every other month, the third week. I'm a farmer, just a poor farmer. I didn't mean..." He shook his head again, his voice wavering. "We live so far out...I've never hurt anyone before. You have to believe me!"

Dean cursed. A werewolf in wolf form was easy to kill, not so one in human form, especially one that blubbered like a fucking baby. He cracked his neck and shifted his weight, trying to visualize the wolf thing as it sank it's teeth into Sam's neck, to bring back the anger he'd felt that night. That had to be enough because this guy was obviously not going to morph and give him an easier target. A cyclical werewolf couldn't change outside his time.

The lycan moaned miserably. "I'm so sorry..." Tears welled up in his large blue eyes and ran down his cheeks into his beard. He buried his face in his one good hand. "I'm so sorry."

Dean hissed angrily through his teeth.

"Shut up, just shut up!"

_Fuck. I can't do it. Not when he's fucking crying. Jesus..._

"You have every right," the lycan raised his head. "Until now, I've never hurt anyone. We were always so careful..."

Dean was about to inquire as to the "we" situation when the question was answered for him. Both he and his intended target flinched as the high pitched wail of a woman's scream cut through the night. For a split second Dean took his eye off the man in his sights, glancing over his shoulder toward the house. In that second the lycan was moving past him, crying out with fear.

"Connie? Connie!"

Whirling, Dean fired, but the lycan ducked around a tree and his shot did nothing but take out a chunk of bark. The guy was fast even in human form

"Damnit to hell!" Dean bolted out of the barn. He should have shot the thing when he had the chance.

There was another shout. "Connie, what..."

A gunshot rang out from inside the house, followed by another scream and the sound of something heavy falling against wooden floorboards. Dean staggered a few steps in surprise. Recovery was quick, and in another few strides he was over the picket fence and into the front yard. He took the steps two at a time, literally leaping up to the front door where he skidded to a halt. Reflexes made him twist aside, out of the doorway, in case a second shot was fired.

The body of the lycan lay sprawled half in, half out of the screen door. Blood stained the front of his coveralls, spreading out from a wound in the center of his chest. It trickled from his mouth, which was wide open in an expression of shock. So were his eyes. Dean winced as he noticed they still glistened with tears. Somewhere inside the house a woman was crying.

Cautiously Dean stepped over the body. He cracked his neck again before moving silently through the house, following the sound of muffled sobbing. It was coming from the kitchen. He peered around the corner, and then scowled. With a breathy curse he lowered the gun and entered.

Sam stood in front of him, holding a pistol to the head of a blonde haired woman. She stood there sobbing, barefoot and clad only in a t-shirt and boxer shorts. Her lip was bleeding, and an ugly red mark graced the side of her face where she'd been struck. As he saw Dean, Sam pressed the gun harder against her head and grinned.

"What took you so long?"

"What the fuck are you doing?" Dean raged. He waved his gun hand toward the front door. "That was the target!"

"Yeah, I know," Sam's voice was infuriatingly nonchalant. He actually shrugged. "He made it too easy." A split second later he was frowning. "Why didn't you shoot him outside?"

"He hadn't morphed," Dean grumbled. "He claimed it was an accident."

"It was!" The woman, Connie presumably, faced Dean with a horrified expression, her voice broken with tears. "I swear! He's never hurt anyone before!" Her grief turned angry. "You shouldn't have been there!"

Sam gave the woman a shake. "Shut up!" She cried out in pain and Dean saw that he held her by a handful of hair. Sam's expression was cold as he regarded his brother. "You've gone soft, Dean. You were going to let him get away with murder weren't you? And not avenge me? Your own flesh and blood?"

Dean's chest tightened with a surge of guilt. He shoved it away angrily. "Let her go, Sam. She's not like him, she's human."

There was a long pause, before Sam smiled pleasantly. "Oh, I know she's human. Right now she'd kill me if she could, but dog-boy over there beat her to it. She's scared too, can't you feel it?" He moved his hand, drawing the gun down the side of her head to a spot just under her chin. Connie rolled her eyes toward him in terror as he leaned close to her face. "Fear, grief, hatred..." he said softly. "She's afraid we're going to rape her you know." His teeth tugged at his bottom lip, let it go again as he closed his eyes and inhaled. "Maybe we should."

"Sam!" Dean raised his gun, leveling it at his brother's forehead. "Let. Her. Go."

Sam straightened. He looked at Dean in silence for a long, nerve-wracking moment before simply shrugging. "Okay," he said agreeably. "If you say so."

The gun went down, and Sam released his whimpering hostage. She sprinted away toward the body of her companion, her anguished cries reminding Dean uncomfortably of those he'd uttered himself just a few nights before. Slowly he lowered his own weapon as Sam crossed the room. They met just inside the doorway. Dean stared straight ahead, but he could feel Sam's eyes on him.

"Next time," Sam hissed. "Don't hesitate."

He brushed past, leaving Dean standing there shaking and wondering if "don't hesitate" referred to him shooting the lycan...

Or shooting Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean leaned against the wall in a gas station men's room, his phone pressed to his ear. He'd gotten Manny's voice mail at first, but he called again, and again, until Manny finally picked up.

_"Dean?"_

"You fucked up, Manny." Growling, Dean pushed off the wall to pace the confines of the men's room. "You really fucked up this time."

_"Can you be less obtuse?"_

"He's a vampire, you shit. You turned my brother into a fucking vampire!"

_"What? That's impossible."_

Dean laughed shakily. "Oh, it's possible." He stopped and slammed a hand into the bathroom stall with a bang. "I've hunted enough of them to know what one looks like, Manny. Don't tell me I'm imagining this."

_"Dean, I swear, I take every precaution to avoid that kind of contamination, and in Sam's case I made damn sure due to the blood loss he suffered."_

"He's not a blood sucker."

_"Then what are you talking about?"_

"Negative emotions, Manny. He's a fucking psivamp. He's been snacking on me since we left your house, and he just took in the blue plate special by scaring the shit out of some woman over here!"

The other end of the line went silent for a long moment, before Dean heard Manford curse.

_"You had me reanimate a psychic? You idiot!"_

"Why didn't you ask first?"

_"Why didn't you just tell me? You're the paranormal expert!" _

Dean punched the stall door again. It didn't make him feel better. "I wasn't exactly thinking straight at the time, Manford. You're the _doctor, _you should have had a handy little questionnaire for me to fill out!"

Manny spluttered indignantly.

Dean hung up on him and burst out of the bathroom with a snarl.

Around the corner Sam was leaning against the hood of the Impala, his arms crossed, looking for all the world like nothing at all was wrong. Dean's pace slowed and he felt the ache of loss return to his chest.

_People can't play God, there are always consequences._

As he neared the car he heard the sound of raised voices. Following Sam's steady gaze, Dean saw a man and a woman arguing outside of the nightclub next door to the gas station. The scene shattered the sense of normalcy Dean had felt only moments before, as it was obvious from his bemused expression that Sam was thoroughly enjoying the confrontation.

"Midnight snack?" Dean inquired archly.

Sam didn't look at him. "More like an after dinner mint."

"Terrific."

The couple concluded their row by stalking off in opposite directions. The man went back into the bar, the girl went to her car and sat inside, crying.

"Now see," Sam said, finally looking over at his brother. "If I were really despicable I'd go over there and hit on her."

"Get in the car, Sam."

"She is kind of cute..."

"Get in the car!"

Sam smiled and wrinkled his nose. "Getting in the car," he joked and did just that.

Dean slid into the driver's seat and turned the key. The Impala roared to life. Her tires screeched as she peeled out onto the highway.

"So," Sam said, casually flipping through Dean's box of cassettes. "What tipped you off?"

"Slight of hand," Dean muttered.

"Care to elaborate?"

"You move too fast."

"Hmm, yeah, that would do it." Stowing the box back under his seat, Sam idly drummed his fingers on the armrest as he took in the dark fields flying by the car windows. "Still thinking you did the right thing?"

"Don't."

"Don't what? I'm just asking."

Dean tightened his grip around the steering wheel. "What's done is done. It doesn't matter if I did the right thing or not."

Sam snorted. "Of course it does, because now you've got another decision to make."

After a moment's silence, Dean said quietly, "I can't kill you, Sammy."

"I'll agree with that," Sam replied coolly.

"But don't push me."

"Come on, Dean. You couldn't even put a bullet into the bastard that did this to me in the first place. How can I take that threat seriously?"

Dean didn't answer.

Sam leaned back in his seat. His voice was soft, that of the old, gentle Sam. "You should never have taken me to Manny," he said.

"I know."

There was another long pause before he spoke again. His voice didn't change. It made his words even more frightening.

"If you try to kill me I'll break your neck, Dean."

"I know," Dean said roughly. He glanced over at him quickly. Sam was looking at him with a pained expression, hinting that a small spark of conscience remained in him. A little of the tension left Dean's shoulders and he managed to lighten the mood. "But do me a favor, if you do kill me, don't take me to Manny afterward, will ya?"

Sam sighed and looked away with the faintest of smiles. "Sure," he said. "It's a deal."

* * *

Dean fell asleep reading the journal. He'd heard of, but never encountered, a psychic vampire before. The blood sucking kind he was more familiar with, and had staked more than a few over the years, but the psivamp was a whole different animal. John's notes on the subject were sketchy and like all of their father's writing, transcribed not only in a nearly indecipherable hand, but also in language that read like code. Dean lay on his bed trying to make sense of it while elsewhere in the room Sam flipped rapidly through all the television channels the hotel cable had to offer. 

John's notes made Dean decidedly uneasy about his current situation. Blood sucking vampires, and their cousins the zombies, drank blood and ate flesh to survive. Vampires did not always inflict permanent harm or death on their victims. Zombies did, but their kind were few and far between, mostly found down in the Caribbean (where Manny collected the base virus he used for his revenant serum) and they were fairly easy to dispatch.

A psivamp was different. They didn't rely on blood or flesh to sustain them. They were not susceptible to sunlight, silver or a wooden stake. Like zombies, their destruction came through decapitation, dismemberment, or complete annihilation by fire. Unlike zombies, they were smart, fast, and usually knew you were coming way ahead of time, making them extremely difficult to kill. It was their psychic abilities that really made them different. Instead of blood, they thrived on negative energy, most commonly the negative energy produced by intense human emotions. A psivamp got off on anger, grief and pain.

There was plenty of anger, grief and pain in the world. Unfortunately the more a psivamp got, the more it wanted, like a junkie on crack. Sam had been toying with Dean since they'd left Pennsylvania, flaming his doubts, compounding his grief, and just generally being an irritating little prick. Pissing Dean off had gotten him by until the encounter with the lycan and his wife. There Sam had gotten a good taste of Connie's raw, unfettered emotion and had obviously liked it.

That's when Dean knew for sure what he had on his hands. A psivamp would torture a person for hours, even days, feeding off their pain and fear. In the end they would kill, partially to soak up that last surge of terror and partially so they could also prey on their victim's friends and family. Grief made an excellent dessert.

Dean didn't want to think about what Sam might have done to the girl had he not been there.

Those thoughts, however, followed him into sleep. He had nightmares. Sam died in his arms again and again. The blood wouldn't wash off his hands no matter how he tried to remove it. His father's voice came to him from out of the darkness telling him it wasn't Sam's blood at all, but that of Sam's victims.

_"It's all your fault, Dean. Didn't you pay attention to anything I taught you?"_

He woke with a cry. The journal fell from his chest, loose papers fluttering down to the bed like butterflies. A thin strip of light eased in through the drawn curtains from a street lamp outside. It was just enough light to reveal a picture that had fallen from the journal's pages. Two young boys grinned into the camera. Dean was missing his two front teeth. Five-year-old Sam sported a dimpled grin and a milk mustache. Dean's arm was around his shoulder.

Just beyond where the picture lay a pair of eyes glittered in the darkness. Shadow shifted against shadow. Wordlessly Dean retrieved the photograph, and all the scattered pages.

"You were having a nightmare," Sam said quietly.

"Felt that did you?" Dean growled. "You know, I'm not your private snack bar."

"I could go out. I'm sure there are a few bars still open even at this hour."

"No!"

There was a rustling sound. Sam reached out a hand to turn on the light over the table where he sat. The laptop was there too. "I thought you would say that," he smirked. "I've found our next gig."

Dean scrubbed his face with a hand, sighed and swung his legs off the bed. "What makes you think we're going on another hunt?" Standing, he made his way toward the bathroom.

Sam's voice held honest surprise. "Why wouldn't we?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because I don't feel like it. Or it might be the whole out of control zombie brother deal we ran into the last time." Dean turned, regarding his brother with a completely feigned look of shock. "Oh, my god. I think that's it!"

"I'm not a zombie."

"My bad. The undead all look alike to me."

Dean blinked, and then Sam was in his face, slamming him up against the wall with the side of one arm pressed tightly against his throat. The other held a knife, the knife Dean usually kept under his pillow, blade first against his belly. Sam could easily disembowel him in one quick stroke. That would be a unpleasantly slow way to die to be sure.

Regardless, Dean smarted off again, managing to force his words past the pressure threatening to choke off his breath.

"Feeling peckish?"

The pressure eased a little, but Sam didn't remove his arm, nor move the knife. He cocked his head ever-so-slightly.

"You're not scared."

"No, not really," Dean said, and was actually surprised to find it true. At this juncture he was fairly certain Sam wouldn't hurt him.

Sam's eyes narrowed.

The fair certainty slid askew in the next breath as Sam repositioned the knife between his legs and pressed the flat of the blade hard against his balls. Dean stiffened as Sam reminded him just how sharp it was by tipping it up on edge. Cloth parted beneath the razor sharp blade until it was just a fraction of an inch away from skin, and Dean would have gone up on his toes if Sam's arm hadn't held him firmly in place. Despite his best efforts, he felt his pulse quicken.

"Now you are," Sam drawled.

Sweat broke out across Dean's forehead. "Oh, come on, Sam! That's hitting way below the belt, literally!"

"Either we hunt, or I feed exclusively off you, which I promise won't be pleasant. You make the choice."

Dean swallowed heavily. "What kind of choice is that?" he grated.

"Should be an easy one," Sam said casually, as if he weren't threatening his brother with imminent castration. "I mean, why did you bring me back, if not to help you on this noble quest, huh?"

"I brought you back because you're my brother!" Dean punched the arm pinning him to the wall. It was like hitting an iron bar. He froze when knife slit through just a little more cloth.

"And?"

"And what? There is no more." The knife penetrated deeper, tripping Dean's panic button. His voice went up an octave and the words spilled out at a rapid pace."If you cut me, Sam, I swear to god I'll tear your head off with my bare hands and stuff it down your throat!" A second later Sam did cut him and Dean went completely over the edge. "You're my brother and I love you!" he shrieked.

Sam let him go.

Dean slid down the wall to the floor, his heart pounding and his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. Tactile exploration revealed a shallow, but startlingly bloody cut among the family jewels. That knife was extremely sharp; Dean had made it so himself. He stared at the blood on his trembling fingers and couldn't believe what had just happened.

"Son of a bitch," he breathed. "You did cut me."

The knife blade thudded into the wood of the table top as Sam sat back down and flipped open the laptop. "Lake Fondant, Kentucky." His voice was incongruously chipper. "Unexplained drownings. I think it's a Lady of the Lake."


	5. Chapter 5

Sam made a point of pissing Dean off nearly every morning for the next two weeks. Dean's nerves were so on edge it really didn't take much either. One snide word, one veiled threat, and Dean couldn't help but snap back with some nasty retort. It kept Sam fed, and stopped him from doing any more than soak up whatever negativity he happened across during the course of their jobs.

They worked three jobs in those two weeks, and aside from egging Dean into losing his temper on a regular basis, Sam acted no different than he'd been before his accident. In truth, Dean had to admit, they probably would have been bickering even if Sam had never changed. The subtle difference was that before, it probably would have been Dean getting Sam hot under the collar.

Each job came with its share of frightened or grieving people. Dean conducted the interviews, Sam soaked up the bad vibes, and together they dispatched whatever dark things they found. There was one small incident wherein Sam started a violent bar brawl in Tennessee, but other than that, things were relatively quiet.

At the end of three weeks they were on the way back through Iowa. They had no leads, they had not heard from their father, and Sam was getting tired of being cooped up in a car or a hotel room with just Dean at his disposal. Dean hadn't slept in days. He didn't trust Sam not to do something nasty to him, or some innocent victim picked up on the street. The tension between the two of them could be cut with a knife. It was halfway through their journey across the state when Sam decided to pluck at Dean's last fraying nerve.

"You have to sleep sometime," Sam said casually. "Not," he added a second later. "That I couldn't just leave while you were awake. You wouldn't be able stop me."

"Why don't you?" Dean guided the Impala swiftly around a slow moving pick-up. It honked as he passed. He flipped the other driver the bird.

"And miss the epic battle you're waging with exhaustion?" Sam shook his head. "It's not quite what I'm used to, but it's a nice little buzz."

"No matter how you put it, that's really disturbing, Sam."

"Yeah, whatever.What are the chances of me getting laid any time soon?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Slim to none. If you think I'd leave you alone with a girl for a second you're out of your mind."

"Well you could join us." With a wistful sigh, Sam leaned back in his seat. "I could tie you up, make you watch. I wouldn't hurt her - much - just enough to get you mad." He chuckled a little, low in his throat. "And probably horny as hell. A threesome could be interesting. You do still have handcuffs in the trunk don't you?"

"Jesus, Sam!"

"What?" Sam's eyebrows vanished beneath his bangs.

"Manny didn't make you a vampire, he made you a pervert!"

Sam ignored him. "Look, there's a town. We could pick up a girl..."

"No."

"You can time me, give me a half hour alone with her. How much damage could I do in a half hour?"

"A lot. No girls, Sam."

Sam's grin was nothing less than wicked. "A guy?"

Dean nearly wrecked the car. "What? No!" He shot his brother a nasty look. "A guy? Man, if Dad heard you say that..."

"Come on, Dean, give me a break. I'm craving pizza and you've got me on carrot sticks and celery."

As odd as that sounded, and as tired as he was, Dean couldn't help but laugh. Catching sight of Sam's scowl out of the corner of his eye made him laugh harder.

"You're not helping," Sam growled. He cracked his knuckles warningly.

"Sam, I don't recommend you try to hurt me in a moving vehicle. If we wreck, there's a good chance your head _will_ come off your shoulders."

"Yeah, wait until we stop for gas."

"What, you gonna knife me in public?"

"No, I'm going to key the fuck out of the entire right side of this car."

"You do that and I swear I'll come after you with a chainsaw!"

"Hmm, that made you mad." Sam chuckled. "I should threaten the car more often."

"Sam, I'm warning you..."

The phone rang.

They both stopped and looked at it.

It was Dean's cell, plugged into the lighter to recharge, but Sam made a grab for it and with his longer reach he snagged it first.

"Dean Winchester's phone, Sam Winchester speaking. Your dime, my time."

Dean punched him. "Shuddup! Give me that!"

Sam smacked his grabbing hand away. "Hey! Yeah. It's nice to hear you too."

"Who is it?"

"No, actually we're in Iowa."

"Sam!"

"Dean's driving. Yeah, I know."

Exasperated, Dean turned his full attention back to the road. He blinked rapidly several times, trying to clear his head. Sam was right, he was going to have to sleep sometime. There _were _handcuffs in the trunk, maybe a little restraint was in order to keep Sam in line while Dean caught up on his sleep. It would be like catching a tiger by the tail though. When he let Sam loose there would be hell to pay. Dean had no doubt that price would be high too if his brother got pissed off enough. He might lose a body part, and Dean was particularly fond of having two eyes, two nuts, and ten fingers. He'd like to keep them all intact.

Leather creaked as Sam sat up straighter. Dean heard his voice go down an octave.

"What?"

"Sam?" Dean scowled, now alarmed, and hissed through his teeth. "Who. Is. It?"

Sam waved at him to shut up. There was a frown on his face as he listened to whatever the caller had to say. "No," he said softly. "It'll take a couple of days." He paused, listening again. "Yeah. No. Don't worry, we'll get there."

The phone beeped as he disconnected the call. Other than that Sam was silent, sitting in the passenger's seat looking out the window with an odd, almost serene expression on his face. When he failed to speak for nearly a minute, Dean couldn't stand it any longer and had to prod him.

"Are you gonna tell me who that was or not?"

"It was Missouri."

Dean's scowl deepened. "Missouri? What did she want?"

Sam hooked the phone back up to its charger and set it back on the dashboard. "She wants us to come to Lawrence as soon as possible." He anticipated Dean's _what for? _"Dad is on his way there."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Dad's headed for Lawrence? And you told Missouri we'd come?" Dean's eyes widened. "Now I know you're out of your mind, Count Chocula. You think you can hide what you are from Missouri _and_ keep Dad from torching your ass? I don't think so."

"Dean."

"Look Sammy, if you swear not to hurt anyone, I'll drop you off somewhere and go meet up with Dad myself. If Missouri plucks anything out of my head I'll just..."

"Dean!" Sam snapped. His eyes narrowed dangerously as Dean shot him a look. "We're going."

"I don't think..."

"It's the thing that killed Mom and Jess."

Dean stiffened. "What?" he breathed. Another quick glance to his right revealed Sam still staring at him intently.

"It's on Dad's tail," Sam said coolly. "He's luring it back to Lawrence so we can kill it."

For a while there was nothing but the sound of the Impala's engine running and the faint bleat of the radio. Each of them fell into their own thoughts. Dean chewed his lip and tried to think through their options. Sam couldn't get anywhere near their father or Missouri. Either of them could easily pick up on what he'd become. John _would_ kill him.

Losing Sam weighed heavily against losing the thing they'd spent so long hunting, the thing that killed their mother, Sam's girlfriend, and whatever lives they might have had otherwise. In a round about way it had also killed Sam. If they hadn't been hunting spooks they wouldn't have been out in that desolate field at night in the first place.

Images flashed through Dean's mind: Mary Winchester slain and burning, Sam's anguished cries as Dean dragged him away from the raging fire in his apartment, Sam's blood spilling out over Dean's hands...

_"Don't do anything stupid."_

"You told her we'd come," Dean said quietly.

"Yeah, I did." Sam ducked his head and sighed before raising a hand to worry at his fingernails. He'd not bitten his nails since he'd been resurrected.

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? Dad can't do this alone."

Dean sighed. "No, what I mean is, what's in it for you?" He squeezed the steering wheel. "Because you know I won't let you lay a finger on either Dad or Missouri."

Sam didn't say anything for a while, as if he were carefully thinking through what he was going to say and how to say it. "I may have changed, Dean," he said finally. "But I have a debt to pay. I made a promise to Jess, and I intend to keep that promise." Leaning forward, he flipped open the glove box and procured a road map. "Call it one last bit of unfinished business."

Dean wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. Unfinished business? What would happen when he finished it? Would it purge the last bit of the old Sam that remained in him; the gentle, caring Sam Dean sometimes felt still lurking beneath the surface of the monster's facade? That Sam was what Dean hung on to with tooth and nail, hoping desperately that his persona would once more prevail - some day. The thought of losing him completely...

"And if Dad kills you?" Dean asked softly.

There was another long pause, and when Sam replied his voice was very flat, void of any sort of emotion. "I won't let him, at least not until this thing is dead." He shook out the map. "Next gas stop, let me drive. You need to get some sleep before we do this."

Dean set his teeth. "Oh yeah, I want to be sharp for this son of a bitch."

It didn't occur to him that Sam needed to feed just as badly.

* * *

His dreams were filled with fire. It chased him from room to room, down endless hallways and spiraling stairs. It cut off every escape route, forcing him to turn back into the flames behind him again to find another way. The baby in his arms was crying, screaming. 

_"It's okay Sammy, don't cry. I'll get us out."_

The fire was alive. It herded him into a room where a woman burned on the ceiling and his burden suddenly became too heavy to carry. He fell to his knees, holding his grown brother's body in his arms as blood pooled upon the floor. Somewhere in the darkness a baby still cried.

"Sam!"

Dean groped for a weapon and did not find one.

It took him a minute to realize he was lying in the back seat of his car where the scent of death still lingered despite his best efforts to eradicate it. Bile rose in his throat. He shoved the passenger's seat forward and wrenched at the door handle, staggering out into the darkness to throw up on the crumbling blacktop. With his hands on his knees he stood gulping fresh air for several minutes. The scent of death still clung to his clothing. His stomach lurched again, but successfully fought off another round of puking.

He straightened slowly. The car was parked in the short term lot of a hospital. Sam was gone.

"Fuck!"

Dean took off at a fast jog down a grassy incline toward the closest entrance, the E.R. entrance. He didn't stop to grab a weapon, he'd never have gotten past security with anything that would come close to stopping Sam.

_Stopping Sam from what?_

He really didn't want to think about the havoc a psivamp could wreak in a hospital, and Sam in particular. It was becoming increasingly difficult to figure out what was on his brother's mind anymore and what he might do at any given moment. Dean wished he did have some sort of weapon. No weapon meant he was going to have to play negotiator, and sweet talking psycho mutant vampires was not high on his list of achievements. Sam was the sweet talker. Dean just shot things and made wise cracks.

The nurses were startled by his sudden appearance at their desk, possibly because he banged on it to get their attention and he didn't look injured. He blurted out the first thing that popped into his head.

"Tall guy, scruffy lookin', dimples..."

_Oh yeah, by the way, he's also not breathing._

One of the nurses nodded. "Yeah, I saw him. He asked directions to the chapel."

Chapel? Dean's gaze shot toward a clipboard bearing the name of the hospital. Saint Mary's. The hospital was called Saint Mary's.

"Down that hall, to your right," the nurse said, pointing. "Take the elevator to the second floor and the chapel is the first door to your left around the corner."

"Thanks."

Dodging around doctors, patients and visitors, Dean sprinted off in the direction she'd indicated. In the elevator he paced back and forth behind a man in a wheelchair. When the doors opened he shoved past quickly.

He resisted the temptation to burst through the swinging doors of the chapel bellowing for Sam at the top of his lungs. It would have been bad form. It would have made him feel better, but it would be in bad form, and John Winchester had tried to teach his boys better than that. Instead, Dean took a deep breath, steadied himself, and entered with barely a sound.

There were only a handful of people inside. A man and a woman sat up front, near the altar where a statue of Mary stood with her hands outstretched. Above the statue was a massive crucifix bearing a frighteningly realistic carving of Christ. Several rows back a woman weeped openly into her hands, and off to the side a group of five young people gathered. From the look of them they were related. They held hands beneath bowed heads, silently praying for a loved one's recovery.

Or for a loved one's departed soul.

Sam sat in the very back row by the door. He did not acknowledge Dean's arrival in any overt fashion, but tilted his head as Dean slipped into the pew beside him.

"Mrs. Donaldson," he said softly, nodding toward the weeping woman. "Her husband has cancer, the final stages. He's in terrible pain and she won't cry in front of him. She doesn't want him to worry about her."

"Sam..."

"Those are the Marcums," Sam continued, ignoring him. "They're siblings. Mom and Dad were in a horrible car accident just a few hours ago. Both are in surgery. The surgeon doesn't think their father will make it. Too much trauma. Too much blood loss."

Dean shuddered, recalling his dream. "What's your point, Sam?" he asked gruffly.

Sam gave him a sideways glance with a small, wry smile. "This place is like an all you can eat buffet. People are dying; I've counted five since I've been here. There are people in pain, suffering in mind and body. I sense anguish and despair. There's anger, too." He jerked his chin toward the couple up front. "They lost their daughter. He's angry, doesn't want to be here. He's angry with God."

"Okay, so dinner was a smorgasbord. Let's go..."

"Dean," Sam interrupted. "I feel all that but..." He shook his head back and forth, speaking slowly. "I was upstairs, in the maternity ward. I passed the nursery window where you can see the babies and I...I stopped to look. I just...they were so small and new. They're blank slates, you know, with their whole lives ahead of them. Little miracles." He turned to look at his brother with tears in his eyes, and a horrible stricken expression. "Dean," he whispered. "I can't feel joy anymore."

Dean had to look away quickly, to force the lump in his throat down. He could no longer trust his voice. On the first attempt it failed him. On the second it came as a wavering croak.

"It's overrated anyway."

He could feel Sam's gaze on him, but Dean would not look in his direction, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead. The chapel room was looking somewhat blurry, and he thought maybe he was catching a cold; his nose was running.

"You know," Sam said quietly. "I may not have been psychic enough to know what you were feeling before, but I am now. You might as well give it up."

Dean bit his lip. He turned his head away so Sam could not see his face. "I'm sorry, Sammy. I..." Again his voice failed him. He cleared his throat and continued more steadily. "I should have listened to you."

Sam's expression turned puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

"Your last words. You told me not to do anything stupid."

"I did?"

"Yeah."

Sam moaned. "And you took me to Manny anyway?"

"Of course," Dean said, feigning an attitude he did not feel in the slightest. "When have I ever paid attention to your sorry ass?" He stood up, surreptitiously wiping his eyes and nose as he turned to leave. "Come on. You've pigged out here long enough; it's time to go."

He didn't stop to check if Sam was following him, but he heard the creak of the wooden pew and as he pushed through the doors, his brother fell in beside him. Wordlessly Sam tossed him the car keys and they made their way back down to the parking lot.

Dean drove the rest of the way to Lawrence. Neither of them said much. Dean sat wrestling with his guilty conscience while Sam stared moodily out the window. He'd fed very well at Saint Mary's. Sometimes after a good fix Sam's new, warped personality gave way to that of the old Sam. In this case Dean wasn't sure if it werea good thing or not.


	6. Chapter 6

It had just finished raining when they arrived at Missouri's small frame house in Lawrence, Kansas, just after six in the evening. The porch light was on and there was light streaming from the front window. Dean peered out at the house. He could just make out the hand lettered sign sitting in front of the curtains.

_Missouri Mosely. Psychic Readings. Tarot. 555-9158_

It seemed very understated for a woman with such a big personality.

He pushed open the car door and got out. Behind him Sam slammed his own door. They looked at each other over the Impala's roof. Dean rapped his knuckles gently on the hard top.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"You're that worried?" Sam grinned, inappropriately in Dean's opinion.

"Sam, either you or Dad are going to come out of this dead." He held up a hand to stop Sam from stating the obvious. "I don't want to be caught in the middle and I damn sure don't want to have to choose between the two of you."

"You'd choose Dad."

"Damn straight," Dean said quickly. It was the honest truth. Sam would know, though, how much it hurt.

"God, you're such a pessimist." Rounding the front of the car, Sam grabbed hold of Dean's sleeve, tugging him away from the curb. "Come on."

"It's like putting a tuna in a tank with a shark, Sam. You two aren't going to live in peace, love and harmony. Sooner or later the shark's gonna eat the tuna."

"Can I be the shark?" Sam asked brightly.

"Fuck you," Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and went up Missouri's front steps two at a time.

"What? Lighten _up_, Dean."

Abruptly, Dean turned around. "Lighten up?" he hissed. "My undead brother is about to come face to face with Johnny the Vampire Slayer, not to mention the whole 'let's ambush the fiery demon that killed your mother' scenario, and you're telling me to _lighten up?_"

Sam shrugged, and Dean realized he'd just been goaded into throwing him a Scooby Snack of angst.

"Damnit, Sam! Cut it out!"

With a chuckle, Sam pushed past him to the front door and gave it a couple of raps. "Stop worrying. I can take care of myself."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Dean grumbled.

They waited for Missouri to open the door. It shouldn't have taken her long, but the door remained firmly shut. The brothers exchanged glances before Dean went up to the door himself and gave it a pound with his fist.

"She'll be mad at you for that," Sam said, and pitched his voice a little higher into Missouri's light breathy drawl. "Who's bangin' on my door like that? Don'tchu have any manners, boy?"

"She'll be madder at you for making fun of her." Dean knocked again, and tried the doorbell. Through the heavy wooden door they heard a muffled chime.

Sam went to the edge of the porch, craning his head around to look back at the detached garage. "Her car's here." He returned to where his brother stood eyeing the doorknob. "Something's wrong, Dean."

"Is that an official psychic reading, or are you just guessing?"

"A little of both. I'm picking up something, but it's really vague. I can't pin it down." He chewed his lip. "But do you need me to tell you?"

"No," Dean said, and turned the doorknob. The front door was unlocked and swung open easily. "I'm not feeling good about this either." He pulled a handgun from his pocket and flipped off the safety. "Come on."

The house was eerily still, and once the door shut, drowning out any sounds from outside, the silence was deafening.

"Missouri?" Sam called. "Hey, it's us!"

Dean elbowed him.

"What?"

"Just let the bad guys know we're here why don't you?"

Sam snorted. "They probably already know, given the muffler kit you have on that piece of crap car."

"Hey! That piece of crap car has hauled your ass all over this country for over six months without a miss. That's quality, man, quality."

"Yeah, whatever."

Sam moved off toward the living room where the lights were shining brightly. Dean peeled off from him to investigate the kitchen. The floorboards of the old house creaked under his feet. He paused to listen but the only other sounds came from the living room; more creaking as Sam moved around. Dean stepped into the kitchen and flipped on the light.

It was spotlessly clean and void of any human or other presence. The only sign that anyone had been there recently was a half-filled pot of coffee that sat in the coffee maker. Dean made his way over to the counter. The coffee smell hit him strongly, made his mouth water. He could have used a cup of coffee, maybe a cup of coffee spiked with a little brandy like his father drank it.

A frown creased his brow. The scent was strong, and fresh. Cold coffee didn't smell the same way. Dean reached out a hand to the pot and his suspicions were confirmed; the coffee was still warm. Whoever had made it wasn't long gone.

Turning to scan the room again, he looked to the table. Aside from a bowl of fresh flowers, there sat not one but two mugs, a dead giveaway that Missouri had made the coffee to share with company. He approached cautiously. The first mug had about an inch of coffee remaining inside. Dean touched the side of the mug and found it, like the coffee pot, still warm. The second mug was empty. Playing a hunch, he lifted it to his nose and sniffed.

Brandy.

"Dad."

A cold chill ran down his spine. It was an ambush all right, but Dean suspected it wasn't a demon John Winchester was after. He whirled and took off at a run toward the living room.

"Sam! Get out!"

Something suddenly impeded his path - a closet door, flung open from the inside. He saw stars as his face kissed the door. The sudden cessation of movement forced him to stumble backward and when he fell, the back of his head bounced off the hardwood flooring with enough force to make him black out for a second. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't hang on to the gun. It skittered across the floor just out of reach.

None of it stopped him from seeing his father emerge from the closet holding a crossbow, nor hearing Missouri come up behind him to pick up the gun and cock it. He only had a split second of time for it all to register before Sam came barreling around the corner.

"Dean? What..."

John cut him off by grabbing his wrist and jerking him further into the hallway. Sam had no time to resist as he was slammed up against the wall. Without a moment's hesitation John leveled the crossbow at his chest and fired it.

There was a horrible sound as the silver tipped bolt punched through flesh and bone and on into the wall. (Dean would recall later having thought it amazing John had actually hit a stud behind the thick plaster.) Sam's breath left his lungs with the grunt of surprise and pain, surprise and pain that was written all over his face. His lips moved without sound.

_"Dad?" _

John ignored him. He pulled another bolt from a quiver that hung at his belt and reloaded his weapon. Dean attempted to rise. He fell back again immediately, crying out in pain, as Missouri stepped on his hand and pointed the gun at his forehead. Her cheeks were damp with tears, but her expression was hard and cold.

"Don't you move."

Dean froze. His eyes darted back to his father who had leveled the crossbow at Sam's abdomen. He winced as the second bolt shot through Sam's gut like a hot knife through butter, pinning him even more securely against the wall. Neither wound, Dean noted, produced any blood, but from the look on Sam's face they hurt like hell.

"Ash wood," John said quietly. He tossed the crossbow to the floor and slid down the wall directly opposite where he'd pinned Sam up like a butterfly on display. "It won't kill him, just slow him down."

Dean thought that was an understatement. Sam had been brought to standstill.

He rolled his eyes back to Missouri. "Will you let me up now?"

Missouri eased the hammer back down on the gun and lowered it. She stepped back from Dean's hand and let him sit up, but she did not return the weapon to him. He touched the goose egg on the back of his head gingerly and groaned as he wiped blood from his nose. John met his eye briefly before looking away. It was a moment before Dean could say anything.

"How did you know?" he asked finally.

"Oddly enough, Manford called me."

"Son of a bitch!"

"Don't you cuss in my house?" Missouri grated. "Watch your mouth."

Dean shot her a glare before returning his attention to his father. John sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands hanging limp between them and his head bowed.

"Do you know how hard it was to hear that I'd lost a son from the likes of Manford Dubois? And then for him to tell me you had him resurrected as one of Manny's misguided projects? What were you thinking, Dean?" His voice cracked and he stopped, putting his face in his hands. "God!"

"I'm sorry." There was an ache in his chest. It felt like he'd had an arrow shot through him too. "I wasn't thinking. I just..."

"Don't," John said softly. He wiped at the tears gathering in his eyes. "I don't want to hear it."

Biting back a retort, Dean turned to Missouri. At first she refused to meet his gaze, but then slowly looked at him. She read him and he knew she saw what he'd been through: Sam bleeding to death in his arms, the agonizing drive to Pennsylvania to plead for Manford's help, and the frightening encounter with the woman Connie that made him realize the horrible mistake he'd made. She also felt the weariness that had dogged him ever since; weariness borne not just of sleeplessness, but from the stress of having Sam feed off him for weeks and his monumental efforts to keep him from hurting anyone else. He left her with his grief, his guilt, and the fear of reprisal from their father.

There were tears in both their eyes when it was over.

"Give him time, Dean," she said softly, sympathetically. "He'll understand."

Dean simply nodded, before a choking breath caught his attention.

"Jesus, Dad," Sam gasped, struggling to draw the breath that allowed him to speak. "If you're gonna cut off my head, can you hurry it up?"

John raised his head to look at him. "No, Sam," he said slowly. "I'm not going to kill you."

It was Dean who replied, shocked. "You're not?"

"No." Rising, John reached into the back pocket of his jeans and produced a piece of paper. "But I am going to make sure you can't retaliate once I let you go."

"Dad, I wouldn't..."

"Yes you would," John snapped. His voice was rough with grief. "A predator doesn't always have the ability to control its instincts, and that's what you've become, Sam, a predator."

Sam's expression shifted to reflect pain of a different kind. He turned his head away, but John caught him by the chin and forced it back. They stared at each other, eyes locked. John recited the words written upon the paper, but did so from memory. He would not release Sam from his gaze. His voice was low, his Latin flawless, and even Dean could feel the tension in the air as the spell began to build upon itself with each word John uttered. His father's voice voice rose to a shout upon the final trigger phrase. The tension shattered and Sam cried out in pain as the paper John held between thumb and forefinger burst into flames. They died out almost immediately, leaving behind only a smear of dark ash.

As would a priest on Ash Wednesday, John put his thumb to Sam's forehead and made a mark there. It was not the sign of the cross, however, but a pentagram. As he stepped back it flared brightly before fading away as if it were sinking beneath Sam's skin.

John jerked both bolts free. Sam slid to the floor with a moan, clutching his chest with one hand as he raised his head to look up at his father. "What did you do?"

"Binding spell. You don't do anything without my permission."

Dean raised an eyebrow. Sam's look was less benign. He was infuriated. It had been difficult to get him to obey his father when he'd been alive, unlike Dean who generally did whatever John wanted without a second thought. Now, Sam was similarly bound, the difference being it was not by choice. It was probably the worst punishment John could have laid down on him and Dean couldn't help feeling a little bit smug.

"Great," Sam growled. Slowly he regained his feet but remained doubled up over his wounds. "Shit, this fucking hurts."

Missouri smacking him in the back of the head for cussing probably hurt, too.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean got his coffee with brandy. It was lukewarm and bitter but it felt good going down. His father had the same while Missouri settled in with a cup of hot tea.

Sam stood leaning against the kitchen counter. The sight of him there was almost painful. It was as if he were excluded from the little group at the table. Like Dean, he seemed to be reeling from the tale their father had just finished. Missouri had not lied at all. John _was_ planning to destroy the demon. It was on its way to them. John could feel it, and so could Sam and Missouri. In this Dean felt out of the loop and he did not mind in the slightest. It kept him quarantined from the fear the other three tried to hide.

He no longer saw Sam's abilities as a gift either, if he ever had. John's story made it clear they were a curse, a curse that had left its mark on the whole family. Sam had drawn dark things like a magnet since the day he was born. The demon that eventually found them was hungry and would have taken the baby away with it, to feed on the power it sensed hidden within the tiny body. Their mother sacrificed herself to stop it, but made it angry, made it obsessed. John turned them into nomads, constantly moving from one place to another so it couldn't find them. He hunted not only to rid the world of evil things, but to attract attention to himself, keeping Sam safe, especially during the four years he was at Stanford.

Six months ago the demon had suddenly changed tactics. It threatened Dean, making it clear to John (how he did not say) that if Sam were not produced, it would take the elder son instead. It revealed to John that it was just one of many, and that there was no escape. The human race would come to an end, but if John cooperated, let it have what it wanted, perhaps he and his sons would be spared when the end came.

"I tricked it," John told them. "It thought I was running to Sam and it followed me."

The ruse had not lasted long. The demon returned to where Dean had been waiting for his father's return, intending to kill him. Dean unwittingly led it straight to his brother, but it arrived at Stanford more than a day behind. Sam was not there, having gone with Dean, following a lead John had planted on his voice mail.

What happened between Jessica and the demon was unclear exactly, but John suspected she'd done the same thing Mary Winchester had done, sacrificing herself to protect Sam. Jess bought them time, a head start. By the time it resumed the chase, John had sent the boys off on another task. Again he kept them moving, sending them on jobs, keeping them guessing as to his whereabouts. The demon could not find them.

John knew it would only be a matter of time before it did find one of them, probably via another demon. He had investigated the creature's claims of a demon cabal and found it true. They were indeed, "everywhere." But John Winchester's main concern was the one that had wreaked havoc with his family. He wanted it destroyed, and realized it was time to act. He discovered a ritual that might do the trick, if they could corner it, pin it down as he'd done Sam, and perform the spell.

"And obviously you've found a way to do that, or we wouldn't be here," Dean said quietly.

His father gave him a long, sad look. "No, Dean, you did."

Sam spoke up from behind Dean's chair, where he'd come to stand. His voice took on the tone he used when he was busy processing information. Dean thought of it as the "professor" voice.

"It's not corporeal."

John nodded. "It's a shadow demon, pure energy."

"But it can be drained," Sam said. "That's how we escaped after it killed Mom and Jess. It used up all its strength."

"Not all, but enough to slow it down. We're talking about a very powerful demon."

"So if we weaken it even more, and perform the ritual - it's a dissipation spell isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean interrupted. He leaned forward, clenching his hands around his mug. "Before you two get any further, can you fill me in on what exactly I did?" With a jerk of his head he gestured toward Sam. "It's usually college boy that comes up with the ingenious plan, not me."

Missouri slowly stirred sugar into her second cup of tea. "All things happen for a reason," she said quietly, after it became clear that no one else seemed willing to answer. "A shadow demon is made up entirely of negative energy. You provided a way to drain that energy."

Dean sat back in his chair, comprehension dawning. "A psychic vampire, a creature - no offense Sammy - that feeds on negative energy."

"Everything is interconnected, there's no such thing as coincidence," John looked beyond Dean toward his youngest son. "We've all suffered enough. It's time to end it."

The rustle of cloth told Dean Sam was moving. Dean followed his brother's progress across the kitchen to the doorway. There Sam paused, tilting his head as if listening. John turned around in his chair to face him. Missouri looked up from her tea.

"Missouri should leave, now," Sam said finally. He came back toward the table and regarded her solemnly. "Tell us what we need and where to find it."

"Uh-huh. You think I'm leavin' you three alone in my house with a demon? I don't..."

"Missouri," John interrupted. He said nothing more. The look on his face said enough.

Sam voiced what John couldn't say. "We won't be able to protect you, Missouri. It'll hurt you, feed off you, and it _will_ kill you. Do you have somewhere you can go?"

"My Momma lives across town."

"Good."

Dean looked at her. "You have a Momma?"

"Of course I have a Momma!" Missouri exclaimed, outraged.

"Well, I just thought that maybe..."

"She'd be some old dried up husk in a nursing home, or dead? I heard whatchu were thinkin' Dean Winchester! Just how old do you think I am?" Her eyes widened. "What? Sixty-two!"

It was just what they needed to break the solemnity of the moment. John shook his head and cracked a small smile. Sam's goofy grin popped out his dimples. Dean glared at him knowing what was coming.

"Do you need Dean to drive you there?" Sam asked innocently.

Missouri added her glare to Dean's and they both gave him a resounding "No!"

* * *

Missouri was gone. Without her the house seemed unnaturally still again. The only sounds were the creak of the floorboards as Sam gathered the herbs and incense they would need for the ritual, and John paced uneasily. Dean sat sprawled in an armchair feeling rather useless. Sam would sap the demon's energy, John would perform the spell. Dean's job was to hold things and hand them to his father as needed. It was sorry employment, but the only thing Dean could do. There was nothing to shoot, and his Latin was piss poor in comparison to his father's or Sam's. He'd never felt more unimportant in his life.

Or frightened, and it was more than just the demon that scared him; it was the thing that had been left unanswered.

"Dad," Dean said softly.

His father stopped pacing. "Yeah?"

"If this works, and we all survive..." There was a good chance they wouldn't. "What are you going to do about Sam?" He inhaled deeply, let out a long sigh. "We both know that binding spell was only temporary. You didn't ground it to an object, and you can't hold it forever."

"I don't intend to," John replied. He sank down onto the couch, and reaching beneath it, he revealed a wicked looking double headed axe.

"Ah, damn," Dean whispered. "You are going to kill him."

Wordlessly his father tucked the weapon back beneath the sofa. "He'll have fed off a demon. It will change him, make him far more powerful. He'll snap that binding like it's nothing and come after both of us." He shook his head. "It won't be our Sammy anymore."

"I can't accept that..."

He started as John's voice turned angry. "You will accept it, Dean, because if something happens to me, you are going to have to do it yourself. Your brother is already dead. That thing in there might be close to what he'd been, but I can promise you, after this, you won't recognize him at all."

Dean lowered his eyes. "Dad, I can't."

"You will. This is not a request, it's not an option. It is an order. If I'm unable to do it, you will destroy him, do you understand?"

"Yessir, but..."

"Dean."

He raised his head quickly. John turned. Sam stood in the doorway and it was obvious he'd heard everything that had been said. It was also obvious how he felt on the subject just in the way he'd said his brother's name. He didn't need to say anything else.

Dean sat there looking between the two of them, waiting for the nightmare to end. When it didn't his grief turned to anger.

"Fuck!" he raged. "Fuck you both."

He pushed up from the chair and left the room. He left the house too, slamming the door behind him.

The air was cool in comparison to the warmth inside. It hit him like slap across the face and he grasped the porch railing in his hands, bowing his head. His shivering was due to more than just the cold. The urge to just get in the car and leave was strong.

It was hard, he thought, to figure out just who deserved his anger. It might have been at himself, for his selfishness; after all, he was the one who had done this to Sam simply because he, Dean, couldn't bear to lose him. In light of what John had told them tonight, however, he wondered how he could justify that anger. Without Sam, they couldn't avenge their mother, or Jessica, which is all that Sam had ever wanted.

He could be angry with his father. Hell, he _was_ angry with his father. John should have confided in him, told him what was going on, and then maybe Dean might not have dragged Sam into this in the first place. Maybe they could have figured something out together that didn't involve Sam at all. Dean wouldn't have to watch his father kill him, or if worst came to worst, do it himself.

Then there was Sam, who infuriatingly accepted his fate so fucking easily.

"You're just assuming it's going to be easy."

Dean closed his eyes. "Get out of my head, Sam."

Sam just kept going. "You're not thinking that I might take exception to you coming at me with an axe. Dad's right, Dean, and you know it. You've been with me all this time, you know how hard..." His voice broke a little. "How hard it's been for me to keep it together. I'm not going to go easily. If I get away from you, you're dead."

"Yeah, I know." Dean ran his fingers through his hair and straightened. "Sam..."

He stopped as he caught sight of his brother. Sam had turned his head, now looking out into the darkness of the front yard where a thick torrent of rain fell. He was not paying any attention to Dean whatsoever. Dean followed his gaze, seeking whatever it was that had put Sam on alert. At first he saw nothing.

Lightning flickered. The shadow of a man stood on the sidewalk.

"Dean," Sam whispered. "Get in the house."


	8. Chapter 8

"Dean," Sam whispered. "Get in the house."

Dean didn't move, he couldn't move, mesmerized by the sight of the demon. It was nothing really, just a man sized silhouette, nothing to be afraid of at all.

He blinked.

The shadow was at the porch steps.

Sam's deep voice broke through his paralysis. "Dean! Get in the house, now!"

They both turned, but Dean led the way, jerking open the door and rushing inside just as the shadow moved up the first step. Sam was hot on his heels. He slammed the door and locked it before shoving Dean toward the living room.

"Go, go, go!"

Dean paused. Sam was walking backward toward him, eyes trained on the front door.

The air took on a strange quality, not quite like how it had felt as John recited the binding spell earlier that evening. Dean was overwhelmed with a feeling of dread. He could feel the temperature drop as he and Sam stared at the front door, which almost seemed to bulge inward at them. The wood creaked, and several screws fell from the straining hinges.

It burst open with a crash. A gust of foul, stinking wind rolled into the house. The lights flickered and died.

Darkness filled the doorway.

Sam's voice was low, and chilling, with an unearthly tone Dean had never heard him use before. It was utterly inhuman. It made him shudder.

"Come here you son of a bitch," Sam growled. "Come and get me."

A hand clamped down on Dean's shoulder, jerking him backward into the living room. He nearly fell as John thrust something into his hands and pulled him further into the room. His father had anticipated the loss of light and had lit candles. The scent of sage filled the room as smoke drifted up from a stick of incense. John held in his hands an ancient, crumbling book and a container of salt. Dean had been given a bowl full of herbs and an Evian bottle, and he doubted spring water was what it contained.

Sam backed into the room. His face was set in a stern expression, all his concentration was on the black on black figure moving in front of him. He edged away as its full form crossed the threshold, and his eyes darted toward his father in silent communication.

As if he were throwing a football, John tossed the salt across the room. The shadow jerked its head toward the motion, setting its sights momentarily on the elder Winchester. Behind it Sam caught the container and poured a line across the doorway. Dean noticed the pass through that led to the kitchen also bore a barricade of salt.

He had good instincts, no one would deny that, but Dean was notoriously blind when it came to a sixth sense. He'd always suspected his father was slightly sensitive. John always seemed to stay one step of trouble and the things he knew, the way he figured stuff out, was somehow far beyond what one would expect from a working class guy from Kansas. Sam took it one step further, being undeniably psychic with a mind as sharp as a steel trap.

_Most of the time_, Dean thought affectionately.

Sam raised his chin. His arms were held stiff at his sides, fists clenched.

Even psychically null, Dean could feel it. It was like something was pulling at him, or that he was caught in a cobweb. The sticky strands clung to him as he pulled away, stretching until they snapped, falling away from his body much too easily. He was not what they wanted. They wanted the demon and all the dark energy in which it had clothed itself.

The shadow flickered. Behind it Sam somehow seemed bigger. The lines of pain around his eyes went away, no doubt because his body now had the strength to heal itself of the wounds John had inflicted. He drew more and more power from the shadow as the seconds ticked by. His eyes closed and his mouth opened, and a shudder passed through his body as if what he felt were orgasmic. It probably was, considering how little he'd fed in the past several weeks. A starving man suddenly offered steak and lobster might have felt the same way.

Dean could barely hear. A rushing roar had filled the room. Winds swirled around them, making the candles flicker, tugging at their clothing. The scents of sulfur and ozone mingled with that of the incense, and underneath those scents Dean caught the sickly sweet smell he'd become entirely too familiar with in recent weeks. The room reeked of death.

A deep, booming voice cried out over the roar. John had the book open, reciting the words written there in flawless Latin. Dean recalled the times his father had read them bedtime stories, playing all the parts using different voices. Incongruously he realized John was using his Big Bad Wolf voice.

His father took a step forward, and then another. Dean followed closely, the holy water and herbs at hand. John reached back for the bowl. He scattered the herbs as his voice kept up its litany of ancient verse. Not even having to turn a page made him falter.

It was then that the demon realized what was happening. It writhed away toward the center of the room, away from Sam, toward John and Dean. John held his ground. Dean looked toward Sam who looked slightly startled that the thing had broken loose from him.

"Sammy!"

Sam redoubled his efforts, reaching out a hand toward the shadow as if physically pulling the energy away.

It was not enough.

An arm shaped appendage lashed out and struck at John. It may not have been corporeal but it could still level a telekinetic blow. Sam yelled a warning and Dean spun away to the side. John moved slightly slower. He could not avoid the strike. It hit him hard, hard enough to make him grunt, hard enough to send him flying backward into a wall. His head snapped back against the edge of an ornamental shelf. Features falling slack, he crumpled to the floor and did not move again.

It was Dean who moved, crawling quickly across the floor to avoid another attack. He skidded around on his knees when he reached the sprawl of his father's body, and scrambled around seeking the book. He looked up frequently to keep his eye on the demon. It was stalking toward him.

"Sam, hold it off!"

He heard Sam shout through clenched teeth. It was a cry of frustration. He was doing his best. Dean had to finish it.

The book lay half hidden beneath a small end table. Dean lunged for it and rolled before the table was shattered by another telekinetic blast. He came up frantically whipping through pages trying to find the spell his father had been using. He found it. It was bookmarked with a photo of Mary. Dean drew strength from the sight of his mother and lurched to his feet, screaming the Latin phrases at the top of his lungs and praying he got the pronunciation right. John had made notes in the margins, not only making it easier for Dean to find his place, but telling him when to use the water.

There was a shriek of outrage from the shadow as the blessed water splashed through it. It lunged at Dean, who twisted away before it could hit him. He retreated to a corner and continued reading. Chaos continued all around him but he drowned it out with his voice, booming out the words of the spell as his father had done. The end was only a few lines away.

_Something's wrong. It's weakening, that's for sure, but it's not even close to dissipating. _

His voice lowered to a growl as he read the final phrase and slammed the book closed. His eyes watered as the unnatural winds whipped up even stronger.

"Sam...nothing's happening!"

It wasn't quite true. Something _was_ happening but not what they'd expected. The demon still existed, slightly diminished, definitely weakened, but its energies had not dissipated. It had been too strong, even with Sam draining it.

Now it was coming after Dean, and it was pissed. He cringed back into the corner, trapped like a rat as it advanced with what sounded like the scream of a wildcat. Dean ducked and covered, making himself as small as possible, peering out from under his arm at the approaching darkness. It was going to kill him. It had shown him how it would do it too, how it would rip him apart piece by piece, make him beg for mercy, and he, crouched there without any sort of weapon, would not even be able to fight back. He felt it mocking him.

And then he felt its anxiety.

Dean raised his head to see Sam standing there in front of him. He had vaulted over the coffee table, putting himself between the shadow and his brother. His presence stopped its advance. It was afraid, afraid of Sam. Dean held his breath.

Sam's voice came to him with perfect clarity over the demon's blood curdling shrieks and the howl of the wind. His voice was frighteningly calm with a chilling note that made Dean's hair stand on end.

"You're mine."

Horrified, Dean watched him step_ into_ the shadow.

It drew back, taking Sam with it, and uttered a scream worse than anything Dean had ever heard in his life. The winds grew. They battered at the windows, threatening to break them, scattered anything loose about the room, including the spell book which exploded in a snowfall of pages. They whirled around in the vortex, fluttering like pale demonic birds. Everything rose to crescendo - the screaming, the winds, the pressure building inside the confines of the room. Dean covered his ears.

There was a muffled boom and an eerie sucking sound. A flash of light lit up the room and then collapsed in on itself. Dean cowered in the corner with a yell...

And suddenly everything was silent and still.

The electric lights flickered. They came on again, burning steadily. John moaned from where he lay, and Dean slowly uncoiled, rising to his feet. He was shaking, but not from fear, just from the surge of pure adrenaline that had shot through him as he thought his life had been coming to an end. He drew an unsteady breath and looked around.

Sam stood quietly in the center of the room. He looked very young, very tired and very, very frightened.

"Is it gone?" Dean asked hoarsely.

"Not yet," Sam whispered. He curled a fist against his chest, his face twisting in what appeared to be pain. "It's here, it's part of me now."

Dean frowned, not fully understanding what he meant.

Tears welled in Sam's eyes, but he smiled, and laughed a little. "I can feel the good again, Dean. How fair is that, here at the end?"

"It's not the end, Sam..."

Sam shook his head slowly. "I have to destroy it. For Mom, for Jessica. I swore I would."

"Sammy, no."

Their eyes met and Dean knew it _was_ over, all of it.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

Smiling faintly, Sam repeated the words that had become so painfully familiar...

"Don't do anything stupid."

Before fire exploded out of nowhere to engulf him.

"NO!"

Dean lunged forward as the flames shot up around Sam's body in a cocoon of heat and flame. They rose to the ceiling, expanded outward toward the walls, and if throwing himself into them was something stupid, he was just par for the course.

"SAM!"

He was jerked back by the collar and he fought, hard, struggling to get back to where Sam had been, crying out Sam's name even as he was dragged out of the room. The intense heat followed, smoke billowed out into the hallway. Dean's cries broke off into coughing and he could no longer fight. He was dragged out of the house and out into the yard where he collapsed to his knees beside the Impala. John was still on his feet, but bent over with his hands on his knees, coughing. After a moment he collapsed to the rain-soaked grass beside his son.

* * *

Together they watched Missouri's house burn to the ground despite the best efforts of the firemen. Dean sat on the ground where he'd come to rest, his head resting against the Chevy's passenger door, oddly comforted by the car's proximity. John stood leaning against the front fender. Neither of them had said a word to each other since leaving the house.

Dean's voice was rough. His throat was a wreck. It felt scalded, and given the intense heat of the fire, it might have been. "What now?" he whispered.

"We carry on," John said softly. "This isn't over, Dean, not by far. This was only one of many, and what we've done here isn't going to be overlooked. I know the truth now; it's a war we're fighting."

"It's a war that will never end," Dean croaked. He rose waveringly to his feet. "Unless we chose to end it."

John looked at him, puzzled.

Dean staggered around the front of the car, using its hood to support himself. "You fight your war, Dad. I quit. I'm done. Let them come and get me, because I don't give a damn anymore."

He opened the Impala's door and got inside. A quick search turned up the key in his coat pocket. His fingers fumbled it into the slot and with a twist of his wrist the car rumbled to life.

For a moment he thought he was going to have to run his father down. John stood in front of the car, staring at Dean through the windshield. Dean stared back impassively. For a long, silent moment the stalemate did not look as if it would end.

Dean gunned the engine a little.

John finally stepped aside.

Edging the car around a fire engine, Dean found open road, and without looking back, he left Lawrence for good.

* * *

He took a few courses at a community college in Wisconsin - computer science, a bit of accounting, some history. At night he worked at a call center helping consumers set up their brand new PCs. None of it felt right, but he labored on, struggling to complete his classes with a passing grade, making sure computer illiterate people had their "defective" machines actually plugged in. He often wondered why he was torturing himself. College made him think of Sam, and thinking of Sam hurt - a lot.

In his second year he met a girl. She provided a much needed distraction. Ultimately she credited his lack of warmth for why she left him. Dean was surprised to realize he didn't care, or at least that's what he told himself afterward when he got shit faced drunk over her leaving. He cared too much, that was his real issue, and the only person who had ever known his secret had been Sam.

John sent him an email the year after that.

_"There's something in Racine you might want to check out._" His father wrote. _"I can't get there myself. I thought since it's not far from you..."_

Dean went. It was a poltergeist. He dispatched it without incident and dropped out of school.

What had he once told Sam?

_"It's just like riding a bike."_

Two weeks later he was on his way to Iowa to check out a series of mysterious deaths. All the victims had been asphyxiated while alone in locked rooms. All efforts to find some reasonable, scientific explanation had been exhausted.

"Time to call in the ghostbusters," Dean murmured, and glanced into the rear view mirror as he had done countless times before.

From the mirror a face stared back at him.

The Impala's tires squealed on the pavement as Dean slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a complete stop in the middle of the road. He quickly turned to confront the stowaway despite the fact that he knew...

No one would be there.

The back seat was empty save for the faint scent of a familiar aftershave.

Dean sighed.

_Doing this alone is getting to me. Maybe I should get a dog or something. _

A moment later he glanced in the rear view again, and again saw a face peering back at him. This time he did not stop the car, and he did not turn around to look, but continued driving as if he'd seen nothing at all.

"You know," he remarked after a few miles of silent contemplation. "I know a guy who says he can reunite the spirits of the dead with corporeal bodies. Maybe we can get you into something nice, like a cute little blonde with big boo..."

_"That would be considered something stupid, Dean."_

Dean tried not to smile, but ultimately couldn't resist it.

"Just seeing if you were paying attention, Sammy," he said softly. "Just seeing if you were paying attention."

FIN

_Author's Note: _

_The concept of the psivamp is _not_ an original one - wish I could claim it, but I can't and I must give credit where credit is due. I've read many vampire books (featuring the classic blood sucking type) that say it's not always about the need for blood, but also the thrill of the psychological games they often play with their victims. The inspiration for the psivamp in this fic actually comes from a book by Mercedes Lackey called _Children of the Night_. There's also a classic vampire and a Japanese demon called a gaki in her tale. Light horror. Good read. _

_And speaking of reading. Thank you all for reading and commenting on this fic. Breaking in a new fandom is never easy. I appreciate all the help and support. _

_-T_


End file.
